Permission
by Someone aka Me
Summary: Grantaire's soulmate thinks of him exactly what he thinks of himself: many things, none of them good. :: soulmate AU where your soulmate's last words to you are on your skin. ExR.


_For my dearest Sam._

Some dialogue direct from an English translation of the brick.

.

 _Permit_ what _?_ Enjolras wonders when the messy words scrawl themselves across his palm. His _palm_ , Jesus Christ. Someone is going to ask him for permission to… What? Die? Leave? Kill him? Something more mundane, where neither of them expect it to be a last question?

Enjolras wonders what his answer will be.

.

Soul words are supposed to be private. Something never shared, for fear that someone will say them on purpose. Or _not_ say them on purpose.

So, naturally, Enjolras has words in one of the hardest places to hide. It's like his soul bonded is _trying_ to irritate him.

.

The thing is, Bahorel sees Grantaire's words first. Their boxing practice has devolved into wrestling on the mats, as it often does, when Bahorel suddenly freezes, and then lets go entirely.

"Oh, R." The words come out gently. Grantaire, lying on his stomach, still half pinned by Bahorel's weight on his legs, doesn't understand.

"What?"

It's then that Bahorel realizes Grantaire doesn't know the words are there.

" _R_ ," Bahorel says again, and it sounds like something is stuck in his throat. Bahorel runs his fingers gently along the dark marks etched into the skin above Grantaire's right hip. Grantaire twists, squirming.

"Bahorel, what-" Bahorel can tell the moment he sees the words, because he freezes.

"What… What does it say?"

Bahorel hesitates, and Grantaire closes his eyes.

"What does it say?" His voice is strong but completely resigned this time.

"I'm not sure if…"

His eyes snap open. "I'm going to find out eventually, even if it takes borrowing every mirror all of my friends own. _Tell me what it says."_

Bahorel takes a deep breath. "It says, _Grantaire, you are incapable of thinking, of willing, of believing, of living, and of dying."_

Grantaire goes very, very still.

"It's not true!" Bahorel says loudly, rolling off Grantaire and coming around to crouch in front of him, a hand on his chin forcing Grantaire to meet his eyes. "It's not true, okay, and this person is an asshole for saying it and _they're wrong_."

R's smile is twisted and broken. "It's fine, Bahorel. My soulmate thinks of me exactly what I think of myself. It's not a surprise."

Bahorel never exactly knows how to deal with Grantaire when he gets like this - dark and self-deprecating in a way that's impossible to shake. He never knows the right thing to say.

Instead of trying to start an argument he knows from experience that he can't win, he just says, "All lives have value, R." Then he offers a hand up and takes Grantaire out for drinks.

They never talk about Grantaire's Mark again.

.

Enjolras has hated the Marks since long before he had his own. They make no sense, do no good. If you spend your life with someone only to find at the end that there was someone else out there for you, someone _made for you_ , all that brings is pain. Even if you spend your entire life with your soulmate, all the Mark does is confirm at the end, when you've already made all of your choices. All it does is tell you that this is the moment one of you dies. Or leaves forever.

The Marks bring only pain and doubt, fear and regret. For this, Enjolras hates them.

As for his own, he feels only confusion. It's not a _bad_ Mark, but it doesn't make any sense without context, and Enjolras much prefers things he can make sense of.

It doesn't stop him from wondering what response his soulmate has etched into their skin. A simple yes or no? Something more?

.

Grantaire sits at the back of the cafe, his wine bottle clutched in his left fist.

He hates himself for doing this, but he cannot look away from the man who stands in a dark corner and lights it up with the fury of his words.

Grantaire knows this can only end in pain. But maybe some part of the cynic wants to believe in this idealistic man and his passion.

Enjolras hates him.

That's okay, Grantaire thinks. He hates himself too.

.

Enjolras does not have time for the cynic. He has a revolution to run, and while he makes his life from convincing others, convincing Grantaire is not worth the effort it would take to earn the conviction of a single man.

He tries only once to entrust any responsibility to Grantaire. He learns his lesson.

"Be serious," he tells the drunk.

"I am _wild,_ " Grantaire says in response.

"You don't believe in anything," he tells the drunk.

"I believe in you," Grantaire replies with such fervor that Enjolras can't tell if he is joking.

"Grantaire, you are incapable of thinking, of willing, of believing, of living, and of dying," he tells the man.

Grantaire's eyes go wide. To this, it seems, he finally has no response. Enjolras turns to leave the cynic behind. Lamarque is dead. The barricades will rise tonight.

"No," he heard the cynic whisper behind him. "No, please, no."

Enjolras doesn't turn back.

.

The people did not rise. The rebellion has failed. His friends have died for a cause toward which they have gained no ground.

Enjolras can do nothing but follow. The National Guard have found him in the cafe, where he had ventured to see if any were left.

His friends are dead.

He glances down toward his palm, uncovered since the binding tore hours before, and he hears boots trample up the stairs. He wonders about the phrase he has not yet heard. He wonders if the universe has gotten it wrong.

As the boots get closer, he stands with his back straight and his chin held high. If he will die for France, he will do so with pride. He is not ashamed of his country. They have not risen for him, but Enjolras believes that they will rise for someone else.

He has to believe in that.

He holds in his hand only the cracked off barrel of his weapon, long since run out of cartridges.

"He is the leader!" a guard yells. "Finish him!"

Enjolras looks at the number of them and tosses his stump of a weapon aside.

"Shoot me," he says.

Twelve men have guns aimed at him when suddenly a hoarse cry arises from behind them.

" _Vive la republique!"_

Grantaire, the drunk, the cynic, pushes through the line with a fervor in his eyes that Enjolras has never seen.

" _Vive la republique!_ I am one of them."

He strides across the wooden floors with a confident, steady stride which Enjolras has never seen from him before. He takes his place at Enjolras' side, where it somehow seems like he always has been and always shall be.

"Finish both of us at one blow."

He turns to Enjolras, and something of the blaze in his eyes tempers to soft coals.

" _Permets-tu?"_

Enjolras feels his eyes go wide. _Oh._

And apparently, the answer is that he gives no verbal response at all, because as he takes Grantaire's hand, pressing the words on his palm into Grantaire's skin, the report of the rifles sound, and Enjolras' head finally falls.


End file.
